The weather of Solyria was merciless, with winter stretching nearly eight months and snow falling relentlessly. Yet the palace servants, skilled and practiced, manipulated the snow with ease, shaping it into translucent crystal blocks with a flick of their wrists and clearing paths as if by magic. The cold held no sway over them; every step, every gesture, was precise and effortless.
As night draped the palace in shadows, the outskirts glowed softly. Tall metal posts crowned with crystal-like orbs cast a bluish-white luminescence, guiding the maids who carried robes, jewelry, and scented oils for the bride-to-be. Wave returned to Noori's chamber, accompanied by a small retinue, bearing heavily embroidered white dresses, exquisite jewelry, and delicate fragrances meant to adorn the princess.
Noori, already alert, met them at the door, a fleeting flicker of confusion crossing her features. "Is it time?" she asked, her gaze slicing through the maids with unrelenting intensity.
"No, Your Highness. But we must prepare you for the Marriage Ceremony. It takes time to ready a bride," Wave replied, her smile wavering under the weight of Noori's scrutiny.
Allowing them in, Noori's attention shifted momentarily to her men stationed nearby. "Did you hear that?" she asked, her voice low and probing.
"Yes, General," came the prompt reply.
"What did it mean?" she pressed, her eyes narrowing.
Her lieutenant responded, his tone calm but cautious. "It seems the message has been misconstrued because of the language. They likely mean the Peace Ceremony the words translate identically."
"And the term 'bride'?" Noori questioned further.
"The Envoy of Peace. It translates directly as 'bride'," he clarified.
Noori inclined her head, acknowledging the explanation. "Good. That makes sense. Well done," she said before turning back toward the room, where the maids had already begun arranging her attire and adornments.
"Please, leave everything to us. Sit and relax while we prepare you," Wave urged, her voice slightly tremulous. Noori complied, seating herself and resting her feet on the footrest, her posture calm yet commanding.
As the maids began to remove her garments, Wave's hand faltered, nearly freezing in shock. Lifting a piece of fabric, she caught sight of what lay beneath. Noori's skin bore the marks of a life lived on the edge: calloused, weathered, and etched with scars—some old, some fresh. They traced the story of battles fought and survived, leaving a map of strife across her body.
Moving closer, Wave's eyes traced scars along Noori's neck and cheek, tissue carefully healed but permanently etched with memory. Her fingers trembled, the weight of the sight pressing down on her. Never had she seen such a testament to endurance.
Noori's eyes opened slowly, settling on Wave, who now stared with a mixture of awe and unease. She caught the faintest glimpse of the scar on Noori's arm. A low, cold chuckle escaped Noori's lips. "Leave," she commanded, her tone sharp and unyielding.
"All of you, leave! I will dress myself," Noori barked as the door swung open, revealing a new presence. Every eye in the room snapped toward the intruder, and Noori's gaze met theirs with a hint of surprise, her composure unwavering despite the unexpected interruption.
"Barira? Did I not tell you to stay back with the others?" Noori's eyes narrowed as they fell on the tall woman with short, hot-pink hair. Barira's sparkling black eyes met hers, warm and unwavering, a stark contrast to the tension tightening Noori's chest.
"My Princess! I came to assist you," Barira said, her smile steady, a balm against Noori's unease.
Noori exhaled, a small measure of relief passing through her. "Well, perfect timing, I'd say," she remarked, closing her eyes and leaning back on the headrest. Barira wasted no time, sending the maids away and taking charge of preparing her.
In moments, Noori stood before the mirror, a transformation almost surreal. Her long hair tumbled down her back in glossy waves, some strands braided with precision. The dress was extravagant, flowing and elegant, adorned with delicate jewels that crowned her like a true princess. Every scar, every callus of her past seemed softened under the weight of royalty.
Noori studied her reflection, awe threading through her voice. "If I didn't know better, I'd think I was about to get married."
Barira laughed, teasing gently. "Married? Do you really think they'd dress you in this, with so little jewelry, if it were a proper wedding?" Noori couldn't help but nod, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"True," she admitted, the humor lightening the edge of tension in her chest.
"Then it's about time we leave," Noori said, shifting her attention toward the door. Barira followed behind, holding the hem of the dress to prevent it from trailing on the floor.
The guard stationed outside caught sight of her and froze, jaw slack in astonishment. "Gen...I mean, Princess… you're… ready?!" His words faltered, unable to capture his surprise at the sight of her regal form.
The palace was fully prepared, yet as Noori approached the awaiting carriage, a gnawing unease settled in her stomach. Wave stood beside it, eager and alert, her eyes widening at Noori's transformation from hardened soldier to polished noblewoman. Even Bishop, caught off guard, managed a small, respectful smile. "Princess," he said softly. "If the Emperor saw you now… he would surely be moved."
Noori rolled her eyes at his subtle sarcasm. "I appreciate the gesture, Bishop. Hopefully, it's the last time," she replied, allowing him to take her hand as she stepped into the carriage.
Yet, even as the carriage door closed, doubt lingered like a shadow in her mind. Something wasn't right. The sudden reconciliation between Nuria and Solyria, the abrupt decree, none of it made sense.
"Why now?" she murmured inwardly, her thoughts circling the mystery like restless predators. "Why compromise after centuries of hostility? What's the meaning behind all of this?"
Her fingers clenched the edge of the seat, knuckles white. The carriage moved forward, but her mind remained still, caught in the uneasy tension of the unknown.